


Higher Instinct

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [14]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hannibal tries to curb his recklessness, Post Season 3, and he knows better now, but it's hard, calming touch, cue happy married in Lecter Castle, luckily he has Bedelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 12:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: It is an unspoken rule since they have taken up residence here; Hannibal does not kill anyone within the vicinity of the castle.It should be simple, but it is not always so.





	Higher Instinct

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awayfromsight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awayfromsight/gifts).



It was an exceptionally lean sirloin, rather surprising given the source of a meat, an overweight census taker who rang his bell on an early Saturday morning.

Hannibal’s mind recalls the distinguished oaky notes of the wine he paired with the Beef Bourguignonne, as he looks at the stubby man behind the shop’s counter, fumbling between the contents of the shelves before retrieving a small wooden box.

“This is their best Caprino Romano,” the man places the parcel on the counter and opens it, revealing an assortment of neatly packed round cheeses.

“We ordered Pecorino Romano,” Hannibal states calmly, barely glancing at the box, the tone of his voice becoming significantly colder, his usual shroud of manners hanging on a thread.

The artisan foods store located in the nearby town was an institution of sorts, a family business passed down from one generation to another and open for decades now, with great standing. The current owner had taken the time to personally introduce himself, rightly acknowledging the new Count and Countess as people of refined tastes, with a promise of providing any product they might desire. Hannibal was more than pleased with the opportunity to conduct business with him; he always favoured small establishments over grand corporations. The service was more personal and of higher quality.

But, as it turned out, not this time.

“Caprino has a better flavour, sharper, the best choice for cheese connoisseurs,” the man behind the counter motions to a selection in front of him, each gesture ending with a flourish, eager to attain a reaction from the still unimpressed client.

The pages of Hannibal’s old rolodex flip in his mind, then stop on a card of an electrician who infused his office with a cigarette malodour. The smell of roasted ribs which pleasantly filled his kitchen the following week was much more welcomed.

The electrician had visited him just once; it is not in his nature to allow people second chances, once they crossed the discourtesy line. And now here he is, presented with another erroneous order from a man who considers his knowledge _superior_ to Hannibal’s. His lips press together as his jaw tenses, a twitch so brief it is unnoticed by the salesman, still flaunting his product. But it does not go completely undiscovered.

“We will pass on it, thank you,” a clear voice sounds next to Hannibal and a hand wraps gently around his forearm. Bedelia, who has been standing behind him, takes a step forward and joins the conversation.

The man looks at her with an expression of genuine surprise, somehow more startled by Bedelia’s command of the Lithuanian language than the blunt rejection of the order.

It is one thing to question his expertise, but to discredit his wife… The tautness returns to Hannibal’s limbs, now paired with a red tint in his eyes, turning his perception sharper; a predator ready to pounce. His gaze flickers to the selection of the smoked meats on the wall; average quality comparing to what he could make, if he had a _sudden_ surplus of produce. He feels Bedelia’s grip on his arm slightly tightening and the red slowly fades from his field of vision.

“What am I supposed to do with all this cheese?” the shop owner’s surprise immediately turns to disappointment at the loss of such high sale.

“I am sure you will find some _true_ cheese connoisseurs to enjoy it,” Bedelia says curtly and lightly pulls at Hannibal’s arm, turning to leave without waiting for the man’s response.

The last thing Hannibal sees before the door closes behind them is the man’s stunned face and lips parted in silent confusion.

It isn’t until they turn around a corner and the shop disappears behind them that Hannibal’s steps are halted when Bedelia stops. He turns his head and is met with her gleaming eyes, studying him attentively, her own unique brand of curiosity and care shining through. She tilts her head as if to examine him closer, her hair falling off her shoulder and catching the sun, like a jewel splitting its beam into a brilliant radiance.

Hannibal smiles; his annoyance with the rude man shifts onto a back track as his train of thoughts now centres on how beautiful Bedelia is.

“Are you alright?” she asks simply, the implication obvious for both.

“Yes, I am,” he replies, still smiling, his previous anger subsided.

Bedelia observes him for a few seconds longer, considering his response, before straightening herself. Hannibal’s fingers reach out at once to adjust her locks and return them to their proper place.

“I feel like having something sweet,” she says as they resume walking.

“Of course, anything you want,” he focuses on her wish with eagerness.

The farther they put the place behind them, the easier it will be to erase the memory of the impoliteness, Hannibal convinces himself, firmly closing the rolodex in his mind, and pulls Bedelia closer as they make their way to the local café she favours.

But the shop sign remains imprinted in his thoughts, edging its way between the old business cards.

 

It is an unspoken rule since they have taken up residence here; Hannibal does not kill anyone within the vicinity of the castle. They are more secluded here, yet more exposed at the same time. He is more than aware of the consequences his recklessness could have. There is more at stake than it has ever been.

It seems simple enough; within the tranquil walls of a place he can finally call home, with the only person that matters and surrounded by _love._ He still has troubles wrapping his thoughts around that peculiar concept, but he embraces it all with child-like delight and pours it all onto the woman who causes his heart to beat faster with her mere presence. And he does not want to lose that feeling. _He does not want to lose her_.

It should be simple, but it is not always so.

The morning incident lingers in the back of his mind, but Hannibal is certain it will fade away into nothingness in no time. He occupies himself with unwrapping of the new parcels that arrived yesterday; personally chosen figurines for the library. He found the long, sinuous lines of art nouveaux best complimenting the endless flow of shelves.

He unlocks the room in his mind devoted to sculptures and carefully catalogues each detail as his fingers slowly remove the protective packaging and examine each piece with care, looking for flaws and hidden damage.

His thumb traces the lines of the figure of a dancing nymph, made unusually out of porcelain, smooth and cold under his touch, when all the sudden, the image of the shop owner invades the room in his mind, disturbing its balance and carefully organised space. His hand closes tightly around the figurine as he tries to dismiss the vision and it isn’t until he hears a soft crack that his reason returns to the present moment. Hannibal looks down at the broken porcelain and releases it from his hand, letting the pieces fall on the desk. He stares blankly at the shards; he does not expect them to put themselves back together again, he merely pushes the fragments aside without further consideration. Is this why people break objects in anger? Unable to break the person responsible for their state, they attempt to transfer their resentment into the faceless item.

People are limited, but _he isn’t_. The ire rises within him afresh at the reminder of the self-imposed barrier. He reaches for another figurine, already standing unwrapped on the desk, a woman with a crescent moon; his fingers wrap swiftly around its curve and he tosses it across the room with such force that the bronze breaks against the bookshelf, a severed head and a lifeless torso now scattered on the marble floor alongside the fallen books.

The clunking sound is interspersed with a loud gasp, echoing in Hannibal’s ears, and making him turn; he only now notices Bedelia standing in the doorway, not hearing her come in.

“I am sorry,” he says at once, more than embarrassed by the chaotic display and the fact that she had to witness it. But mostly displeased with himself for having startled her.

“I will clean this up immediately,” he averts his gaze in silent contrition.

“That is alright,” she says softly. There is no annoyance or judgement in her voice which makes Hannibal feel even worse about losing his temper.

He leaves her looking at the ruins of his own making, while he attempts to bring the room to its previous order.

And, as predicted, it did nothing to ease his vexation.

 

The knife slices through the venison with ease; long, succulent, red strips appear one by one beneath the shining blade. Hannibal always takes care to keep his utensils in a pristine condition and all his knifes are sharp enough to cut through _anything_.

The kitchen is quiet, flashing steel of the cabinets adding to the coolness of the air. Not a single sound breaks the stillness as he works silently, immaculate space helping his concentration, like a surgeon in a sterile operating room.

Hannibal tries to focus on the task at hand, ignoring the irksome thoughts of other uses he could find for this sharp knife. The muscles in his jaw twitch as he seeks to relax the grip on the handle as not to damage the blade or the meat.

It would take nothing more than one swift cut, preferably to the throat, severing both carotid arteries at once, causing death within two to four minutes. His mind shifts promptly, scrutinising all the ways to quickly dispose of the body; he no longer considers the man a source of meat, he does not seem to be worthy even of that.

Lost in his thoughts, he does not see the knife coming close to his hand; the blade barely grazes the skin, but it is enough to cut it. Hannibal watches absentmindedly as the blood slowly trickles from his finger, a gentle, red rivulet between the valley of venison pieces. So very unlike a severed artery. His grip on the knife hardens, knuckles turning white, as his anger advances with red haze, clouding his sight.

A hand rests delicately on his clench fist, a familiar warm seeping through his skin. There is no pressure in the touch; Bedelia waits patiently until he releases the handle of his own accord. Only then she removes the knife from his grip and places it aside. Taking his other hand, she slowly guides him to the sink, turning the tap on to wash the blood off his finger.

He does not apologise this time, it would be unavailing. His throat feels too narrow as he struggles to find any words at all, gazing at the steady stream of water coloured with crimson speckles.

“I am not really hungry. Perhaps we could postpone the dinner?” she asks while still holding his hand under running water, her tone as casual as ever.

The water is clear now, but he continues to let it wash over his skin, not wanting to part with her touch. Bedelia finally turns it off herself and wraps his finger in a hand towel, looking at him expectantly.

“Yes,” he manages to find his voice at last, compliantly holding the towel around his hand.

Bedelia smiles faintly.

“I was going to sit in the garden, would you like to join me?” she squeezes his hand one last time before turning away.

She does not wait for his reply, knowing that he will follow her in his own time.

Uncaring of the unfished meal or the stained meat, Hannibal discards the towel and makes his way to the terrace, guided by the zephyr-like trail of her perfume lingering in the air. The glass door remains open, an inviting breeze twirling lightly with the silk curtains.

He steps from the cool interiors into the still heated air of the late summer. The sun hangs low behind the trees, illuminating the foliage and bathing the garden in golden shimmer. Enclosed by the trees and the castle walls, the garden appears as a serene oasis, like a painting suddenly coming alive. They truly are in the world of their own here, Hannibal continues to marvel as his eyes immediately search for Bedelia.

He finds her sitting in the corner of the cushioned bench, legs curled up, eyes closed, relishing the last rays of the sun caressing her skin, specks dancing playfully on the waves of her hair. Hannibal smiles; he knows how much she enjoys the warmth. He reflects on the treasures stored in the rooms of his memory palace; all the art cannot compare to the vision enrolled in front of him. His imagination has self-imposed limits, as much as he loathes to admit that, but Bedelia opens endless possibilities in his mind, ones he had never considered before meeting her.

Bedelia’s eyes open when she senses his presence and she extends her arm, inviting him to sit. He does so without delay, taking a seat next to her, but keeping a small space between them. The events of the day are still fresh in his mind as he is certain they are in hers. He continues to look at her, basking in sunlight, and waits for her to pass her judgement.

But she does no such thing; she holds his gaze, unmoving in her corner, while her hand reaches out, resting on his arm. It slowly travels up, brushing his skin, before her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. Hannibal closes his eyes as she begins to stroke it; languid, unhurried movements, strands flowing between her fingers, nails gently grazing his skull. He groans softly as the hand moves to the nape of his neck, caressing it lovingly. He tilts his head, eager to reach her hand, and she cups his cheek, letting his nose nuzzle her palm.

It might seem that the wild beast has finally been tamed, but nothing would be further from the truth. Bedelia is the only one who has never tried to subdue him. His lips find her fingers and he places a kiss on her thumb, before finally closing the remaining distance between them. Hannibal rests his head on her breasts as her arm wraps around him. He inhales deeply, the well know scent of her skin drifting into his nostrils, sweet and heady, while he focuses on the steady sound of her heartbeat. It is even and undisturbed, soothing him in turn.

“Would it be worth it? Killing him?” she asks bluntly, not caring for any pretence. He always treasures her honesty, even if his stubbornness makes it hard for him to accept at times.

“No,” the word leaves his lips at once; the answer is obvious, but the tone of his voice gives an impression of still being resentful. His train of thoughts is used to well-travelled tracks in his mind, it is hard to choose a different route.

The shop owner is a known figure in the community, his disappearance would not go unnoticed. Questions would be asked, authorities would be notified.

Bedelia does not comment, simply holding him, letting him come to terms with his own admission.

Putting his arm around her waist, Hannibal burrows his face in her chest, allowing his reasoning to find the right course. He ponders the thrill of the hunt; it is sharp and intense, but it fades as quickly as it rises. Not like the affinity that comes from being with Bedelia. The sensation stretches endlessly, spreading through his veins and warming his blood. A flame that never burns out.

And there is more than one way to be rid of the impertinent man; his mind feels somehow more lucid now as he savours the feeling of her embrace. The man will take a holiday eventually; is he a skiing or a beach resort type of person? Regardless, Hannibal can spare a day to briefly delve into the dreary world of package holidays.

But all that can wait, he has more important things to focus on at the moment; he places the objective in the back of his mind, calmly, with a clearer purpose this time, and snuggles closer to Bedelia as she continues to stroke his hair. Tranquillity washes over him as he surrenders to her touch once more.

“I think a man like him likes to holiday on the Spanish coastline, wouldn’t you agree?” Bedelia speaks at last and Hannibal’s head lifts to look at her, meeting a keen stare and smiling lips.

She never fails to captivate him; Hannibal’s own smile blooms instantly as he raises himself up to kiss her. At times he still cannot believe how perfect she is; new thrill wakes up within him as he captures her lips.

To lose her would be to lose everything and he will not let that happen. Never again.

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt: Bedelia calming Hannibal's anger. I always headcanoned the unspoken "no killing around the castle" rule, so it was great to finally address it in fic. Bedelia does not intend to restrain his instincts and never had, but there's a time and a place for everything and that place is not in their home. And Hannibal knows that.
> 
> I am not sure whether people are tired of bedannibal stories or just the quality of my stories has declined, but I feel like I've hit a wall here in the past weeks, so any feedback or suggestions would be much appreciated.


End file.
